


it's been a long, long time

by fragilethings



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, also elektra, frank is a nerd, i retconned what the show did to ben fuck the police
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-30 00:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6400213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilethings/pseuds/fragilethings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts like this: the Winter Soldier is captured.</p><p>She finds out because she wakes to a 3am text from Frank, which reads:</p><p>Frankie (3:17)<br/><i>they got barnes</i></p><p> </p><p>AKA: Karen and Frank attend Bucky Barnes' trial, meet Steve Rogers, and set the world to rights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's been a long, long time

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be like 3k max and mostly Frank and Karen bickering about their takes on morality, but 10k later here we are. It kind of got away from me, and I am very not sorry about it. This is set about a year after the events of the last episode of season two of Daredevil, and spans at least a month.
> 
> Trigger warnings for discussion of anxiety and coping mechanisms (dissociation). If you see anything and want it tagged, please let me know and I will update!

It starts like this: the Winter Soldier is captured.

She finds out because she wakes to a 3am text from Frank, which reads:

Frankie (3:17)  
_they got barnes_

Karen (3:19)  
_barnes who???_

Frankie (3:20)  
_are u serious?_

Frankie (3:20)  
_the damn winter soldier._

Frankie (3:21)  
_aren’t u supposed to be a reporter?_

He even sends her Upside Down Smiley Face Emoji for good measure. Because he’s a grade-A asshole. Karen sighs and grabs her laptop. 

Obviously, it’s the top headline in every news outlet in the world. Exact details of the Soldier’s capture are few and far between; she assumes most of that information is classified. There are bits and pieces on Captain America’s involvement, but not enough to confirm anything, mostly conspiracy theories popping up before her eyes in comments sections everywhere. A good fifty per cent of them are about Captain America and the Winter Soldier being lovers. Karen scrolls through a few horrified responses Re: Cap Couldn’t Possibly Be Gay He Represents America before she laughs and goes to make herself a big ol’ pot of pure caffeine. It’s gonna be a long day.

For a week, Karen is glued to her shitty TV when she’s not out digging up dirt or in a ten hour coffee fuelled three in the morning writing blitz. She tunes in to the news every time she’s in the office, which is rarely, but Twitter updates and live feeds from every news outlet under the sun are a blessing. Even Ben is grabbing bits and pieces for The Bulletin, be as it may their proximity to D.C doesn’t give them prime position on new updates. Her phone buzzes with texts from Frank, sending her info on his whereabouts but mostly snapchats of his dog. Foggy sends her snapchats of origami animals he’s making instead of working. Claire sends her selfies pulling a variety of faces. Matt sends her exactly nothing at all. 

It’s an average sort of week.

Karen is halfway through a plate of microwave lasagne when a key turns in her lock and Frank strides through her door. Slightly embarrassed, she clicks the safety back onto the gun she’d grabbed reflexively and puts it back down.

“Y’know I gave you that key so you could get in here when I’m _not_ in, right?” she says pointedly, through a mouthful of food. “You could’ve knocked.”

Frank shrugs. “Yup. But, I didn’t.” he eyeballs her plate with a faint look of disdain. He’d never admit it, but Frank’s a food snob through and through. She’s willing to bet he has a secret food blog. “When’s the last time you had a good hot meal, Page?”

“Use your eyes. Right now, Frankie boy.” she retorts, gesturing to her sad and somehow slightly deflated-looking lasagne. 

She’s answered with a coat thrown in her face and a wolfish grin. 

“Put that on before I make you, I’m takin’ you to dinner.”

“Fine, but you’re buying.” 

 

 

They end up in a cosy little diner in Williamsburg, and Karen hates to admit it but the food there’s better than anything she’s cooked in her entire life and ever will. After both of them have furtively checked all the windows and exits she orders the greasiest sounding burger she can find on the menu. Frank orders half the menu and chivalrously ignores her stomach growling until the food arrives. It’s easy to forget that the man opposite her strides around sporting a chalky skull on his chest these days; his face tonight is gloriously unblemished, he’s wearing a button down shirt for chrissakes. It’s sort of endearing, he’s all kinds of too big for it and it’s somehow surreal, like seeing a bear in a tutu or something. The mental image makes her grin to herself. 

“What’s so funny?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Since when do you scrub up?”

“When I’m takin’ a pretty girl out to dinner, Page.” 

If it pulls her up short a little, he doesn’t have to know it. Except he does, cos for some reason Frank Castle can read her like a book. “You look good, Castle,” she concedes, which earns her a chuckle, “and you should give a girl some warning.”

She’s been wearing the same sweats for two days and hasn’t washed her hair for five, just sprayed dry shampoo at it and threw it in a bun and hoped for the best. Some people can pull off the messy bun and sweats look. Karen is not one of them. 

Still, Frank’s crooked grin lingers and he slides a basket of fries to her side of the table. “Duly noted, ma’am.” 

From anyone else it would feel mocking, but despite the fact they’re far past the early days of her trying to find him a get out of jail free card, Frank tends towards the military formalities. When he’s not throwing her coat at her. Or calling her ‘Page’ or ‘Kay’.

“So when’re you goin’ to D.C?” he asks, throwing her train of thought completely off the rails.

“What? I’m…I’m not going to D.C.” Karen replies, confused. “Why would I be going to D.C?”

Frank eyes her over his forkful of fries. “Winter Soldier trial maybe? Are you tellin’ me you’re not gonna be reportin’ on the biggest trial of the century?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it. I mean, it’s so well covered, what else can I add, I dunno.” Karen pops a fry into her mouth and contemplates while she chews. “It’s gonna be rammed. There’s no guarantee I’ll even get in the courtroom. And…”

“And?” Frank echoes, curious.

Karen worries at her lip and stares into her beer for a second. “Uh, since everything happened. I don’t, um, particularly like going new places alone.”

(She doesn’t have to mention the nightmares or the echo of gunshots in her ears or the newfound anxiety that there’s someone out to kidnap her around every corner or that she relives pulling the trigger on James Wesley _over and over_ when she can’t sleep. Frank knows.)

“I got you, Karen,” he says gently, brushing his fingers across the back of her hand so the warmth of his touch draws her out of her reverie. She calls it her safe space, though he’s mentioned it’s called ‘dissociation.’ Coping mechanism. “That’s why I prepaid two tickets. You just gotta pick the flights.”

Karen stares at him. Frank fucking Castle. 

 

 

They catch a flight a couple of days before the trial begins. Frank nabs an aisle seat and Karen takes the middle seat and sleeps on his shoulder the whole flight. Karen’s already scouted them a cheap hotel to hole up in, a shitty little room with cracked mauve paint on the walls and the sparse remains of something that used to be carpet. She sprawls out on the bed with pages of research and scattered chicken-scratch notes – honestly, she…she can’t believe what James Barnes has gone through, the details coming out are horrifying, worse than anything she’s ever imagined. Frank disappears for a few hours, partially to see the sights but she knows he’s acquiring a couple of guns for the Just In Case scenario that always feels right around the corner. He gets back around sunset looking a little rough around the edges and squirrels away a whole arsenal of weapons around the room.

Somehow it makes her feel that much safer.

“They do a breakfast buffet,” she murmurs, chewing on the end of her pen.

“Continental?” Frank asks, hopeful.

“You know it.”

He lets himself fall backwards onto the bed next to her, crushing a couple pages of her notes underneath him. Karen grumbles and pulls her pages out from under him. At some point in her life, sitting in shitty hotel rooms with cracks in the ceiling and a TV from the 1950s, preparing for a trial, with _Frank Castle_ became the norm. She supposes the latter two, at least, were true to start with. Glancing sideways, she observes Frank for a while – long legs hanging off the edge of the bed, trigger finger twitching like it does sometimes when things get intense. She wonders if he knows it’s his tell. 

“There’s only one bed.” Frank says.

“Uh huh.” Karen agrees. “Good powers of observation.”

“I’ll take the floor,” he tells her, turning on his side to look at her. Broad nose, strong brow, dark eyes, filled with something she can’t read. It’s more of an offer than a statement.

“No,” Karen shakes her head and starts clearing up her work. “No, that’s okay, I don’t mind sharing.” 

She shoots to her feet when the phone shrieks, even though she should know it’s just the receptionist, just asking if they want a wake up call. It’s not that easy to remember, these days. 

Frank chats amenably down the phone for a couple of minutes and Karen stares out the window and does breathing exercises until her heart rate slows a little.

“You’re safe with me, you know,” Frank says, kicking his shoes off one by one. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“You can’t always be here.” Karen replies.

“You’d be safe anyway, Karen, you’ve got your gun, I’ve seen you aim that thing. You’re more than capable of---“

“That’s not the _point_ ,” she snaps, “I’m sick of holding my breath for the next time some sick fuck wants a hostage, I’m sick of seeing innocent people get hurt. I’m sick of walking down the goddamn street and people _following me_ for _doing my job_! I wanna leave my apartment without needing my damn gun just fucking _once_.” 

She’s aware she’s shaking, all the anxiety she’d pushed down rising back to the surface in raw bursts. And Frank is sitting up and reaching out carefully.

“Is it okay if I touch you?” he asks softly, pulls her into his arms when she nods consent. 

Karen just rests her cheek against his chest and listens to his heartbeat and closes her eyes until her breathing slows to the rhythm and the feeling of his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back, not realising how tight she’s clutching onto him until she loosens her grip slightly. 

“I’m not upset,” she clarifies. “I’m angry.” _Furious._

“Don’t I know it,” Frank presses his lips to the top of her head. “You’re gonna be just fine, you know that? You got dragged into some dark shit with Fisk, with me, with Red, all of it, and you came out of that and kept going. Hell, Page, you’re the scariest motherfucker I know.” she can hear the grin in his voice. “I wouldn’t mess with you.”

“You better not,” she smiles. “I’ll kick your ass, Punisher or not.”

He laughs a rusty, rare laugh and shifts them a little, tilting his head back against the headboard and breathing out slowly. They sit like that for a while, sunlight playing across the room through the curtains, until night falls. This city is a lot like New York in that even at night it never stills: horns honk and people chatter outside. And closer to home, Karen can hear Frank’s strong, steady heartbeat where her ear is pressed against his chest, and smiles to herself, humming a satisfied noise. 

He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Wanna sleep?”

Suddenly, Karen doesn’t want him to let go of her. “I wanna try,” she agrees, if reluctantly, and straightens. 

All of their luggage is on the floor next to her side of the bed, so she rifles through her own case for the comfy, oversized shirt she always wears instead of pyjamas and plods to the bathroom to change. It’s a filthy little place: the walls are an unpleasant shade of puke green, the tiles are freezing underfoot and the mirror is cracked in one corner. There’s a dead fly on the shower floor, too, but she’s seen worse. Jessica, the P.I. they left Frank’s dog with, lives in relative squalor in the neighbouring apartment to Karen’s and she _pays rent_ there, so all things considered Karen counts herself lucky. She stares into the mirror for a moment after changing, studying her tired reflection: stark, purpling bags under her eyes and messy, mussed up hair; chapped lips; a wide-eyed, haunted look she knows she gets after too many consecutive nights of nightmares. 

Eh. 

Frank’ll just have to deal with it.

That thought escapes her the second she walks out the bathroom door. Frank is semi-naked barely ten feet away, and the dim light from the bedside lamp cascades across a candid map of scars and marks on his upper body. He’s immensely built, too, not in the six-pack way, but with dense bands of muscle covered by body fat: a thick, firm waist, broad shoulders, and heavily muscled arms. She can’t even count the scars strewn across his skin, some gleaming and pale against the olive of his skin tone, others still healing. And in the light from the lamp half his rugged face is thrown into dim shadow – the only unscathed part of him she can see from here. And he’s grinning at her with the warmth of the sun.

Jesus, he’s beautiful.

And obviously the lone thought that makes it through is _are you fucking kidding me?_

It takes her a moment to remember how breathing works, and when she does she casts her eyes at the floor quickly, heart thudding so loudly she’s almost certain he can hear it from across the room. “Jeez, Frankie, ever heard of modesty?”

And this is… ridiculous, surely? Because she’s seen him in various forms of nudity a thousand times before. Has the flutter in her stomach been there the entire time? 

In all fairness, he’s been covered in other peoples’ blood most other times.

“Please, feel free to enlighten me,” Frank snarks playfully, sliding under the covers. 

“Oh, shut up.”

Karen takes a half second to gather herself before she crosses the room and climbs into the other side of the bed, suddenly painfully aware of her bare legs and pathetically thin t-shirt. It’s a relief to be in the bed, where she slides down so far only her nose and eyes peek above the covers. She lies on her back stiffly while he turns off the lamp, then stares resolutely at the ceiling while he settles back down. He’s making himself comfortable with little noises she’s heard him make so many times before now, but are suddenly, absurdly, making her cheeks burn like a fourteen year old with a goddamn crush. 

“G’night, Kay.” he says softly, to her left.

“Night Frankie.” she murmurs, and squeezes her eyes shut.

His breathing slows as he drifts off, less on his guard now they’re away from Hell’s Kitchen. When she knows for certain he’s asleep, Karen lets out a long breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, because _what the fuck, Karen, when did this even happen?_ It feels like some trickster god up above just dumped a bucket of cold water on her head and screamed _surprise; you have feelings for Frank Castle!_ And that’s, that’s a thing now. Her eureka moment is realising she has feelings for a man so emotionally unavailable he commits murder on a weekly basis. 

Like she’s even one to talk. On the murder count and the emotional availability. She still gets tight little pangs of sadness and regret in her chest when she thinks about Matt.

And yet.

Fuck.

She rolls onto her side and pillows her head on her arm, staring into the darkness of the room. Frank snuffles and snores softly, and Karen closes her eyes and tries to will herself to sleep, regulating her breathing by counting to ten and back down again. She can feel herself drifting gently into the void of a dreamless sleep when she feels the bed shift and a heavy, muscular arm drape over her waist. Her heart squeezes. If she shuffles back just a little to feel the solid warmth of Frank’s body pressed all the way up her spine, that’s for her to know.

 

 

The sun is barely rising when Karen wakes, skin ablaze with warmth that should be uncomfortable but isn’t. She’s rolled over during the night, but Frank’s arm is still heavy around her and holding on tight. She finds herself crushed snugly against his powerful chest, her head tucked under his chin. For a while, as seconds tick by into minutes, Karen considers pretending to be asleep when he wakes, since she’s certain that the minute he does this is over and she’ll be back to reality, and a world where only hours ago she discovered she’s head over heels for the Punisher and there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell he feels the same way. A world where she is essentially doomed to stare from afar for the rest of her natural born life. Good. Great. Heart Eyes Emoji.

Well, Karen’s been a lot of things, but never a coward. She breathes a sigh as she feels Frank shift next to her, letting loose a grumbling yawn, then stilling. Karen can almost feel him tense, realising he has his arms wrapped around her. Because this really only ever happens when he’s calming her, which given everything that’s happened during the past two years or so is a good portion of the time he spends with her, but instead of withdrawing he just shifts a little. His fingers twitch reflexively against her side. Karen slots her arm around his waist and gives him a squeeze.

“Where’s m’coffee?” she mumbles into his chest. 

“Huh?” Frank rumbles, rusty, withdrawing slightly to glance down at her. “What?”

“You heard me. This is not the five star service I was promised,” she protests, “We have things to do and I can’t function without a litre of coffee in my system.” 

Regardless, Frank raises one eyebrow and seems to contemplate this. “You’re perky this mornin’,” he drawls, “sleep well?”

“Well, almost no nightmares,” she says, smiling.

“I’ll take that,” he scrubs the back of his head with one hand, “so what’s the plan for today, boss?”

Karen extracts herself from him and sits up slowly, because Frank casually holding her like that is getting a little too much for her ragged nerves to take; it’s just a bit too intimate and a bit too warm and a bit too much something she could really, really easily get used to. “I’m thinking breakfast buffet, Lincoln memorial, Natural History Museum—“ she grabs her phone, scrolling to find her list. “Ooh, Newseum? Some war memorials, if you want?”

He nods amenably, “Sure.”

“But first coffee.”

 

 

It’s a nice day out. The air is crisp with the promise of spring, the sky a little overcast but the sun escapes through the haze of cloud now and then and it’s peaceful and sends warmth right through her. D.C is abuzz with people, more than usual, Karen imagines – she can’t be the only reporter that caught the first flight she could find to try and squeeze her way into the Winter Soldier trial. They visit all the memorials and museums on her list and drop into a quiet, tucked-away coffee shop where she talks Frank through her notes; she’s gonna have to go through them in more detail tonight before the trial tomorrow. 

Frank, he proves a good sounding board, pulling her up on notes less relevant, questioning which direction she’s gonna take the article – and the truth there is she doesn’t know, not yet. She’s got the bare bones of an article planned, but nothing is set in stone and it probably won’t be until the trial is long over.

They’re just heading back to the hotel for the night when her phone buzzes; she pulls it out of her pocket absently to check. Of course it’s Ben – he’d signed off on her heading to D.C. to follow the case in two seconds flat. 

Ben Urich (8:54)  
_good luck tomorrow._

Karen (8:56)  
_thanks, p sure i’ve got this :)_

Ben Urich (8:57)  
_never doubted it for a second. keep me in the loop._

Karen (9:01)  
_will do_

“Ben asking after you?” Frank guesses, glancing at her.

“Yup.” Karen says, nodding. “He was just wishing me good lu---“

At this point, because despite all Ben’s good wishes she has the worst luck in the world, they turn onto the street their hotel is located on and she barrels straight into someone. Said someone must be about the same sort of build as Frank, because Karen all but bounces off them and Frank instinctively grabs her arm to steady her. She’s mumbling apologies before she’s even recovered her balance –

“Shit. Christ. I am so sorry, I wasn’t looking--”

The stranger is stammering apologies too, having automatically reached out to help her recover and stopping only, she assumes, because the steel in Frank’s expression next to her. Karen can tell his jaw is clenched tight without even looking, and his fingers are twitching on her arm. Then she actually looks at the stranger she all but fell into and. Oh.

Maybe everyone’s Undercover Superhero Kit is about as good as Frank Castle’s. Because stood in front of her in a nondescript hoodie and baseball cap with the brim pulled low (at night?) and some sort of hipster glasses is Steve Rogers. She just rebounded off fucking Captain America.

“Oh my god. I--- I really am sorry, Cap.” she stutters, colouring immediately.

“It’s not your fault, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” Cap—Steve?—says, gaze flickering between Karen’s beetroot face and Frank’s steely grip on her arm. “Karen, right? And Frank.”

“How do you know who we are?” Frank interjects, his grip loosening on Karen’s arm slightly.

“I don’t know if you’d noticed, pal, but your case got a lot of facetime with the national news.” Steve smiles. He’s kind of ridiculously handsome, in a chiselled, all-American, clean-cut sort of way. “Anyway, I like to keep up with what’s going on in New York. Who’s who, who’s doing what.”

“You’re from Brooklyn, right?” Karen asks. It’s not really a question, everyone on the planet knows Cap’s a Brooklynite, but it feels polite. 

“Born and bred.” Steve nods. “So I’m guessing you’re in D.C. for the trial. You’re with the _Bulletin_ these days?” his expression sobers a little.

Karen chews on her lip, nodding. She’s about to open her mouth to reply when Frank mutters, “It’s a goddamn circus, man, it’s a fucking disgrace it’s even gone to trial. There’s no way he’s going behind bars, not after what he did for this country. What he went through.”

“We’re on your side, all the way, for what it’s worth.” Karen adds softly, if only to fill the silence that lingers afterwards.

Steve regards them both for a second, a sad smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. His eyes settle on Frank for a little longer than necessary, and Karen just knows Steve knows about every kill Frank’s ever made. She wastes a brief second wondering why Captain America of all people can see the Punisher in the street and not want to sock him in the face, but something tells her Steve Rogers isn’t the high and mighty, straight-laced poster child for freedom and the American way they hoped for back in the day. After all, despite great efforts by the government to cover it up, it’s recently become clear he just spent months on the run with the Winter Soldier and he’s days from taking the stand to defend him. It’s hardly likely he’s about to preach to the Punisher about taking lives.

Maybe he even agrees with Frank’s personal brand of justice.

“Thanks,” Steve reaches out to squeeze Karen’s shoulder. “And – sorry again, for nearly steamrolling you.”

“It was nice meeting you, Mr Rogers.” Karen says, offering him a smile. Frank nods his agreement.

She pulls her coat tighter around her as they pass Steve, and she can tell Frank’s listening for the thud of his footsteps to make sure he’s moving on, too. 

“Ms Page?” Steve calls.

“Yeah?” she almost stumbles again, spinning on her heel.

“I’ll pull some strings, make sure you get in there tomorrow.”

Karen has to try not to gape at him. “Thank you.”

There’s a silence that settles over them as they trace their steps back to the hotel. It’s spitting rain by the time they get back inside, and Karen goes to toe off her shoes as she sits on the edge of the bed, grabbing a brush to sort out the tangled mess her hair’s become over the course of the day. 

“So,” Frank says, emerging out of the bathroom with a toothbrush in hand, “did I just have a really damn vivid hallucination, or did you just fucking fall into Captain America? And have a conversation with him? A conversation where he knows our damn names?”

“Correct, all of the above actually happened.” Karen says, trying not to grin _too_ hard. “I think we might’ve made friends with Captain America? I dunno. He didn’t roundhouse you so it’s already better than _you_ normally do.”

Frank rolls his eyes. “Ever the charmer, Kay.”

“I, on the other hand, am lovable and perfect in every way.” Karen continues, mock-serious. 

He throws a towel at her for her trouble.

(It doesn’t change the fact he just fangirled over Captain America.)

 

 

She wakes before dawn on the morning of the trial, and lies in bed listening to the gentle hum of the air con and the slow in-and-out of Frank’s breathing next to her. Despite herself, nervous excitement coils heavily like a snake in the pit of her stomach, and barely half an hour ticks by before Karen slides out of bed to get ready. Frank wakes as soon as she moves an inch, rolling over onto his back and peering at her as she’s toeing on a pair of slippers. He regards her for a second before grunting and curling back up into the foetal position. Clearly she’s not that much of a threat.

They get ready slowly, Frank emerging bleary-eyed and tousled from his cocoon of blankets as Karen brushes her teeth. She’s applying her lipstick when he reappears from the bathroom in the very same suit he went to his own trial in, and they head out to Capitol Hill as the lobby clock strikes barely seven, Karen’s heels clicking a staccato beat against the linoleum floor. 

Even so, the steps of the Supreme Court are alive with people, reporters and members of the public, and the air is electric. Karen worries at her lip as she weaves around the crowds, suddenly hoping against hope that Captain America is a man of his word because there’s no way in hell she’s getting in here on blagging alone. Frank is at her heel every which way she turns, suddenly sharp and alert and more prowling than walking. He’s got at least two guns on his person, she’d guess, if not more. It’s still comforting to have him by her side, and Karen thinks, not for the first time, how grateful she is to have Frank around.

They’ve been waiting by the doors maybe half an hour, and Karen’s received a flurry of texts from Claire about ‘shitty goddamn night shifts’ and well wishes from Foggy, when her phone buzzes again:

Unknown Number (7:52)  
_look to your ten. :-)_

Karen’s head snaps up. Of course, twenty feet away is Natasha Romanoff leaning casually against a pillar. She’s tried at least a little to disguise herself, with a hoody pulled over her head and shading her eyes, but, still. 

“Morning, gang.” Natasha says in that trademark husky drawl when they stride over to her. In person she’s even more gorgeous, holds herself with the delicate poise of a ballerina. “How are we?” 

“You really wanna ask her that before coffee, ma’am?” Frank rumbles. “It’s not a great idea, if ‘m honest.”

“Shut up, I can function without caffeine. Just not well.” Karen snarks, elbowing him in the ribs. His lips curl upwards just a little.

Natasha’s green-grey eyes shift from Karen to Frank and back again, looking suitably amused. “Don’t worry, I sent Sam on a coffee run, he’ll be back in five if he can work up the nerve to tell the rest of these assholes to get out of his way. Come on.” she turns on her heel, gesturing for them to follow her.

“…I have the _biggest_ crush on her.” Karen informs Frank, bringing her notebook to her chest as they weave after Natasha. 

He snorts a laugh. “Who doesn’t?”

Natasha leads them down a maze of corridors until Karen’s completely and hopelessly lost, but Frank pads alongside her unalarmed. 

“Are you testifying?” Karen asks, keeping pace with the Black Widow’s languid, easy stride. 

Natasha shoots her a look, tugging her hood down as she walks. “I’m not sure I can, all things considered. James and I…it was. Complicated.”

Karen nods, ignoring the bite of intrigue to push further. Natasha doesn’t seem the type of person to tolerate prodding for headlines. When finally they arrive at a nondescript door, they step inside to what Karen realises is the very courtroom the trial will be held in. It’s empty save for three or four people: Steve’s already inside talking to a couple of ex-SHIELD agents, heavy bags under his eyes that undercut the small, welcoming smile he shoots their way as they enter. Moments later, a lean, well-built man Karen recognises as Sam Wilson enters through a side door: he holds himself with the same military rigidity she notices so often in Frank. He’s also holding a tray of coffees, which makes him Karen’s new best friend. She abandons Frank to Natasha’s critical eye without a second thought.

“Thank you _so much,_ ” she says with extra emphasis, grabbing a cup from the tray and swigging immediately. “Sam, right?” 

He nods, grinning easily. “Karen, yeah? Steve told me you were coming. I’ve read a couple of your articles.” he raises an eyebrow, “Really tearing the crooks in Hell’s Kitchen a new one, huh.”

“It’s about time someone does.” Karen says, running a hand through her hair. “This, uh, kinda feels like new territory for me. You know? I’ve always covered the crime, not the trials afterwards. Well. I’m usually _in_ the trials.”

Sam nods, “Yeah, but Steve wouldn’t have gotten you in here if he didn’t think you could handle it. That guy knows who’s trustworthy.” his grin flickers a little, and Karen just knows he’s remembering the SHIELD meltdown that in a roundabout way led them here. “Mostly.”

“Mostly.” Karen echoes.

“Your friend,” Sam tilts his head at Frank, now talking in low voices with Natasha, “looks remarkably like that Frank Castle guy who was on the news a while back.” he grins wide.

“Amazing coincidence, isn’t it?” Karen agrees.

 

 

They bring James Buchanan Barnes in to an uproar. Karen thought she’d seen uproar at Frank’s trial, when he’d screamed himself hoarse at judge and jury alike, but it was nothing compared to this absolute chaos. Barnes trails in with none of the Punisher’s brutal ferocity, no clenched jaw, no raw, animalistic fury. His hair is greasy and hangs in thick strands on either side of his face, he’s unshaven and his skin looks sallow and greyish. Without the metal arm he keels slightly to the right with each step, as though unused to walking without its counterbalance. There’s nothing of the Winter Soldier’s predatory stalk there. Yet left and right there are people screaming support or abuse, with no clear distinction on either side, just a maelstrom of shouting and disarray. Karen grips her pen and glances over to where Steve Rogers sits, hands balled into tight, desperate fists.

He looks like a haunted man.

Barnes is seated, finally, and the trial starts. Karen is scribbling notes almost faster than she can think, but Frank sits to her right barely listening to what’s going on around them. Actually, he’s playing Candy Crush on his phone, and his absolute disinterest in a trial he’d ranted to Steve about only twelve hours ago irks Karen no end. She considers whispering, but instead grabs her phone in a brief reprieve.

Karen (11:02)  
_you’re being p rude, frank_

Frankie (11:02)  
_yeah but im on lvl 600_

Frankie (11:02)  
_killin it_

Karen (11:04)  
_i’m serious_

Frankie (11:05)  
_so am i_

He sends her a screenshot of his level for emphasis. She rolls her eyes and goes back to her notes, quietly seething at his insensitivity. 

She’s written a reminder to herself to look up the prosecution lawyer, some smarmy new money asshole, when the smarmy asshole himself starts calling forward witnesses to crimes the Winter Soldier has committed, and, god, there are just so many. So many accounts of blood and brutality and death, but Karen pauses with her pen hovering over her notebook and remembers, _remembers_ sitting at that table across from James Wesley and pulling the trigger again and again and again until he slumped back in that chair. 

And maybe it’s not exactly the same thing, but Karen did those things of her own volition, just knowing that if she didn’t she’d be the one who ended up dead. James Barnes was brainwashed and tortured and brutalised, and maybe he didn’t have that choice to make. Maybe the ability to make that choice was taken away from him seventy years ago by a demented Austrian scientist on a power trip.

It seems like that’s the angle the defence are going with, too, cross-examining witnesses with questions angling towards the Soldier’s attitude or visible emotional state. Of course, not one of them can prove there was any intent behind the action other than forcibly following orders – not from a man who’d had every bit of what made him Bucky Barnes ripped out and rewired and stitched back up again.

The day goes by painstakingly slowly, Karen’s starving and her hand is cramping from writing so much. She’s also certain that if any more shit is talked about James Barnes, Steve is gonna launch himself out of his chair and clothesline the prosecution. He’s already been told to effectively shut his damn mouth several times. It’s a relief when they adjourn for the day, and Karen, remembering she’s annoyed at Frank, gathers her things and stalks out of the room before he can finish his level of Candy Crush. She’s met with an exasperated yelp and the thud of his boots behind her, rushing his usually slow, easy stride to catch up. She’s almost out of the building and down the stairs before he reaches her.

“What the hell, Page, you just leaving without me?” Frank grunts more than asks, shoving his stupid phone into one of his pockets. 

“I don’t know, Frank, you gonna keep being an ass?” she shoots back, fury rising within her, “you gonna keep acting like you give a shit in front of Captain America when we both know you wouldn’t bat an eyelid if they put that soldier in the goddamn ground?”

Frank stops short, grabbing her arm. “Is that what you think?”

“Yeah, that’s what I think! You think he’s the kind of guy you’d put in the ground your damn self! Why are you even _here_? To sit and laugh when they put him away?” she growls, bristling. She jerks her arm away, but his grip is firm. “Let go of me, Frank.”

Frank loosens his grip slowly, but Karen can see his jaw clench tight. “Bull _shit,_ ” he snarls, and lets go of her entirely. It’s clear she’s hit a nerve. “Don’t act like you know a goddamn thing about what I think, Karen. You know jack shit. Fuck this.”

He says that last part almost to himself, because he’s turned on his heel and is walking away before she can get a word in. Shaking with anger, Karen watches his retreating back for all of half a second before she all but stomps her way to the hotel. He can sleep in the trash tonight for all she cares. 

His stuff is gone by the time she gets back.

 

 

Frank doesn’t turn up at the trial the next day, or the day after that, or for the next three, or at all. Karen sits in the gallery by herself of the time, accompanied by Natasha or Sam occasionally. Frank doesn’t text, and he doesn’t call, and he doesn’t give her a single sign he’s okay or even alive. Even Matt and Elektra call, one night while she’s sat typing up her notes. Her article turns into articles – into a series of updates on the trial, and from what she can tell they’re well received, if not mostly by Barnes’ supporters. The trial drags on for almost three weeks, and Karen feels a little guilty for staying in the threadbare hotel Frank has been paying for, but. Well. It’s money stolen from any one of Hell’s Kitchen’s crime syndicates. So she feels less bad.

It takes the jury almost two days of debate when they step out to discuss their verdict. 

Finally the jury file back into the courtroom, and it’s even tenser than the first day, if that’s possible. Barnes is shepherded in wearily, still looking harried and ill. This time, his hair is silky and freshly washed, though, and he wears a well-fitted suit. Karen notices how Rogers’ eyes trail his friend’s every move, and finds herself tapping an anxious beat on her knees with the end of her pen. She crosses her legs to stop her feet doing the same to the floor, and can physically feel her heartbeat pick up. The foreman steps up, and Barnes watches with a hollow look in his eyes.

“On the first count, how do you find the defendant?” the judge asks.

“We find the defendant not guilty,” the foreman says.

There’s a pause, an almost collective intake of breath. The judge nods.

“On the second count, how do you find the defendant?”

“We find the defendant not guilty.”

“On the third count, how do you find the defendant?”

“We find the defendant not guilty.”

“On the fourth count, how do you find the defendant?”

“We find the defendant not guilty.”

Karen sucks in a shallow breath. The world seems to shudder to a halt.

“On the fifth and final count, how do you find the defendant?”

“We find the defendant not guilty, your Honour.”

The courtroom erupts.

 

 

On the steps of the court outside, Karen stands aside from the crowd of reporters and TV crews waiting to ambush James Barnes for a quote on his newfound freedom. Instead, she watches the people lingering nearby, all the while wondering if Frank is even still in the city. When Barnes strides out, now equipped again with the heavy, powerful prosthetic arm he’s best known for, his eyes are alert and his head is raised, jaw clenched with tension as he walks beside his defense attorney and the bodyguards steering them through the crowd. A swift rush of movement catches her eye, and Karen raises her camera in time to capture a sweet shot of Steve Rogers all but barrelling into his friend, both hands cupping Barnes’ face with a frantic intensity as he pulls him into a deep, ragged kiss on the steps of the courthouse. There’s a moment, just a flicker, where everybody wonders what’s going to happen next, whether this will be a one sided thing. Then Barnes chokes out _‘Steve,’_ against the Captain’s lips and kisses him back, hard.

Karen catches Natasha’s watchful eye and smiles.

 

 

After everything, she’s glad to get home to the bustle of Hell’s Kitchen. Ben sends her a car to the airport because he’s just that much of an angel, and Karen toes off her shoes and collapses on the sofa the second she gets home. When she wakes up it’s dark and she’s starving, so she potters about the tiny kitchen making a poor excuse for mac ‘n’ cheese and sings along to the radio, when her phone vibrates on the counter.

Frankie (21:41)  
_can we talk?_

Karen breathes in slowly through her nose, scrubbing her hand through her hair. She feels a pang of guilt in the pit of her stomach – she’d almost pushed the Frank situation to the back of her mind. 

Karen (21:44)  
_yeah. give me an hour._

She scarfs down her mac ‘n’ cheese so fast it burns her tongue, then rushes to the shower to wash her hair and brush her teeth simultaneously. Karen doesn’t know why, but she feels weirdly self-conscious about Frank coming back here after the note they left things on, so she plumps cushions and even dusts a little. Not too much, then he’d notice she’d made an odd amount of effort, just… enough her place doesn’t look like a complete shithole. Her bell rings, and she buzzes him in, heart thumping in her chest.

“Um, hi.” she breathes, stepping back to let him in.

“Hey,” he says, kicking off his boots in the doorway.

Frank’s face is a patchwork of bruises yet again; he’s sporting a deep purple shiner around his left eye and a couple of nasty scrapes on the same cheek. There’s the usual split lip and probably a couple more bruises under the stubble covering his cheeks, and he smells like cigarettes and the coppery tang of blood. The smell of it sits right at the back of her throat, and Karen swallows. 

“D’you want a drink?” she asks, right at the same time as Frank says:

“I missed you.”

They both pause warily. Karen chews on her lip and meets his gaze. “What happened, in the courtroom?”

Frank sighs, gesturing at her couch. “Can I sit?”

She nods, dropping onto the couch beside him. Frank folds his hands neatly in his lap, half-turning to face her.

“I’m sorry,” he says, softly, “I was bein’ an ass, I know that. I shoulda said something; I’m usually better at explainin’ myself than that. I shouldn’t have shut you out, Kay. And I’m sorry,” he pauses, sucks in a breath, “see, I hate courtrooms. I hate everythin’ about em, I hate trials and I hate the justice system in this goddamn country, Karen, it’s wrong. It’s corrupt as shit. That Barnes case shouldn’t even have made it to the courtroom; he’s a goddamn POW. The people in there were a crowd of fuckin’ vultures, present company excluded.”

“Why did you go?” she interrupts, unable to help herself. “If you hate it so much, why did you go in there?”

Frank fixes his eyes on her. “It was important to you.”

Karen puts her head in her hands. 

So Frank had put himself through an experience he hated for her, sat in that courtroom by her side with memories of being on that stand fresh in his mind. He’d been playing that stupid goddamn game to distract himself, not because he didn’t care, not because he thought Bucky Barnes was a murderer he wanted to put down. And she’d accused him of all of the above apart from the truth.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry.” she says, glancing up at him. “I’m so sorry, Frankie, for everything I said. You have to know, I – I don’t think that low of you, I never have. I should have realised, I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions, god, I’m sorry.”

Frank shushes her, a smile twitching up the corner of his lips, “It’s alright, you don’t have to know everything about everyone, Page. You don’t agree with my methods, I get that. That’s okay. But so you know, I’d never touch Barnes. The poor bastard’s been through enough shit for twelve lifetimes, doncha think?”

Karen worries at her lip again, “yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Besides,” he continues, “did you see the look on Cap’s face the whole time? Even if they’d jailed the guy there’s no way in hell Barnes would’ve stayed there. Too many high-powered buddies. Rogers would’ve taken out half the security in D.C. to get to him.” 

“True.” she says, abashed.

“Are we good, Page?” he asks, scooting over on the sofa tentatively.

“I feel like an idiot,” she murmurs, “but yeah, we’re good, _Castle._ ”

“You’re not an idiot.” He pulls her into a tight one-armed hug.

“Frank?” she says, leaning into him.

“Mmhm?”

“I missed you, too.”

Karen breathes him in, all the blood and cigarette smoke and gun oil, and thinks about just how fucked up he’s got her and how she can’t have any of this, not ever.

 

 

“Ya got Animal Planet on here?” Frank asks from the couch. 

“I dunno, maybe?” Karen says, poring over the longest and final article she’s yet to finish on the United States v James Buchanan Barnes.

“Some help you are,” he grumbles.

“Find it yourself!” 

Frank rolls his eyes and goes back to flicking through channels. His worse-for-wear pup, Max, grumbles next to him, rabbit-kicking something rapidly in his doggy dreams. Frank’s surrounded by a maze of gun bits and parts, taking each and every weapon in his arsenal apart and putting them back together again with ease. He’s probably getting oil on her couch, but at this point Karen’s stopped caring any more. Every time Frank leaves her place he leaves a different mess, whether it be bloodstains or Max’s poop or on one memorable occasion, someone else’s bloodied tooth. Karen had had nightmares about it for weeks. Frank hadn’t gotten away with that one lightly.

Karen reaches for a grape from the bunch in her fruit bowl, nibbling on it as she thinks about what to say next. Late afternoon sunlight filters through the windows, a soft breeze toying with the papers next to her laptop. Frank mutters something to himself about her shitty TV and tosses the remote on her couch, striding over to peer at her writing over her shoulder.

“Nearly done?” he muses, breath tickling her ear. His chin digs into the soft skin by her collarbone, and Karen squirms away at the sensation.

“Hundred more words, two hundred, tops.” she nods.

“I’ll make us somethin’, then.” he ruffles her hair with one hand, more purposefully annoying than playful, and Karen rolls her eyes and fights a smile, going back to her work.

He clatters around in the kitchen, humming along to something he’s put on the radio. Whatever he’s making smells delicious, Karen assumes it’s some sort of fancy vegetarian chickpea-and-tahini sort of shit he likes to make – she’d never even heard of tahini before he went out and did her grocery shopping while she was asleep, the big nerd, and she guesses it’s okay, it just smells like crappy peanut butter. 

Brushing her hair away from her face, Karen peeks away from her screen to watch him, pottering around in her kitchen like it’s his own. He told her once that he used to cook for his family whenever he was home, and the thought saddens her, imagining the Before Frank Castle, a smiling, warm figure with a family he adored. The After Frank Castle cuts a much more sombre figure in public, but it’s nice, seeing him relaxed and doing something he enjoys in her shithole of a place. Even if it’s not the same as anything he had before.

It’s yet another thing she could get used to, too easily.

He starts singing along to whatever seventies bullshit he’s got her poor radio tuned into, all moving hips and wooden spoons drumming on her countertop. It makes her smile, and impulsively she grabs a grape from the bunch and pelts it at him, biting her lip to stop herself from laughing. It strikes him in the lower back. He whirls around with wooden spoon in hand, eyes widening as he looks between the grape, now on the floor, and Karen.

“Did you just,” he starts, setting the spoon down and stalking towards her, “throw a grape at me, Page?”

Karen narrows her eyes at him. “And what if I did?”

Frank smirks, seizing half the bunch from the bowl, “You really wanna go?”

Karen straightens and grabs the other half, “Yeah I wanna go.” she says, and throws one at his face.

“Oh you’re fuckin’ _on,_ ” he rumbles, and Karen’s animated yelp as a green grape hits her straight in the boob can probably be heard ten blocks away. She dashes behind the sofa, where Max is waking up from the commotion, and sees Frank duck behind her kitchen counter, only his eyes peeking out. She pelts a grape at the top of his head but, prepared this time, he ducks, and all she gains from it is a squashed green mess on the far wall. Chuckling, Karen dodges his return fire and creeps around the edge of her couch, peeking out around the side.

A grape smacks her in the temple for her trouble.

“You dick!” she screeches, pelting grape after grape at Frank’s face when it appears above the counter. He’s laughing, and the dog is bounding between them, tail wagging so hard the rest of his body wags with it. She scoots to the far end of her couch for a better vantage point, which is hard given the guns spread everywhere, but Frank knows her too well and she’s met with an onslaught of green when she pops her head around.

“Ready to surrender, ma’am?” Frank teases, sticking his head above the counter with an impish grin. “’Cos I accept.”

“Am I hell,” Karen snorts with a laugh. Battling from the trenches is getting them nowhere, she decides. She creeps further around the end of the sofa slowly, straightening for her final charge, and runs at him.

Only, Max chooses this exact moment to wind between her legs, yapping at her.

Karen stumbles over him and curses her own clumsy feet on the way down, landing on the floor of her apartment with a resonating crash and the laughter knocked out of her in one breath. Frank’s on her in less than a second, hovering worriedly.

“Shit, Karen, are you okay?” 

She chokes a laugh, elbow throbbing, winded. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” Max licks her face and she pushes him off gently. “I’m good, nothing broken.”

Frank offers her a hand she readily takes, still smiling despite herself. He hauls her up effortlessly, and Karen can feel her heart hammering exuberantly against her chest, gasping for the air forced from her lungs, as he looks her up and down for damage. 

“I’m fine,” she insists softly, arm still in the grip of one of Frank’s large hands. “I’m okay.”

And he looks so concerned, when she meets his eyes, brow furrowed worriedly, Karen’s heart all but skips a beat and there’s a split second where she just thinks fuck it and leans up to press her lips to his. He tastes of spices, and his lips are softer than she expected, giving to the recklessness of her kiss.

“Karen---“ Frank says against her lips, and Karen pulls away, panicky. He looks her in the eye, surprise registering all across his broad, handsome face.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Fra---” she chokes out, but the hand gripping her arm slides up and cups the back of her head and he pulls her in and kisses her again, slow and exploratory, his tongue sliding between her lips and licking deep into her mouth with the promise of something more. He kisses her leisurely, unhurriedly, his other hand coming to wrap around her waist to pull her closer, and she finds herself cupping his face and leaning into the heat of the kiss. When they finally pull back she’s breathless, and Frank’s gazing at her with that softness in his eyes like she hung the moon, dips his head and presses his forehead against hers. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.” he tells her, ghosting his thumb across her cheekbone. Karen closes her eyes. “A long goddamn time.”

“Why didn’t you?” she challenges, lips turning upwards at the corners. He’s liked her all along too?

“Coupla reasons,” he says, “not havin’ the nerve bein’ one of em.” 

Karen steals a kiss, tenderly. “How about you plate up that food and we go to the roof and you tell me about that?” she’s sure there’s more, things he wants to make certain of, and she’s in no rush.

(Even if there’s an overwhelming part of her that really, really wants to drag him into her room _right now._ )

Frank nods, kissing her forehead, then goes to sort out their meal. It’s been simmering for about half an hour too long now because of their grape fight, but it smells like chilli or something so it’s probably fine. Karen feeds Max and pulls on a coat, then grabs wine, glasses and a blanket to take up with them. Frank follows her quietly with the chilli in tow, his presence behind her making the hair on the back of her neck prickle restlessly, and they settle on the blanket on the roof.

It’s dark, now, the sky a sea of stars half-hidden by clouds and smog. Karen settles next to Frank, their only contact point his side warm against hers, and picks at her food in comfortable silence. She can tell Frank’s doing the same beside her, figuring out where to begin his spiel. 

“I was worried,” he starts, “that I couldn’t be enough for you. Give you enough. You know? I’ve been on this path a hell of a long time, and I thought – because of Maria and the kids, I couldn’t give you the love you deserve. An’ you deserve so much, Karen.”

“So do you,” Karen tells him softly, brushing her hair behind one ear. Frank kisses the top of her head, gazing out at the city beyond.

“An’ maybe I can’t love you the same way, but there’s different kinds of love, right? I can’t ask you to replace them ‘cos no one can, no one can live up to that, huh. It’s unfair. But,” he pauses, chewing on the words, “what you are to me, ‘s special. An’ I never thought I’d care about anyone so much again. You tear me to pieces, Kay. Like I never thought I’d feel.” Frank smiles, crooked and handsome, “This is it for me, y’know?”

Karen blinks at him owlishly, tugging her coat tighter around her shoulders, goosebumps prickling up her arms involuntarily – did he say, in a roundabout way, what she thinks he did? “Do you love me, Frank?”

Frank reaches out and traces his fingers down her cheekbone, voice gravelly. “Yeah, I love you.”

Karen climbs into his lap, knees knocking cold against the concrete either side of his wide hips. “You love me,” she repeats, kissing him hard, smiling so hard her face hurts. “Oh my god, you love me.”

Frank chuckles, purposely grazing his fingers against her skin as he slides his hands down to her hips, “We’ve established that, ma’am, doncha think?”

Karen flushes hot, reading the unspoken question he’s really asking her, “I, I love you too. I really do.”

_I really do._

Frank bites gently at her lower lip, sends sparks of electricity running up and down her spine, and growls when she digs her fingers into his shoulder blades. “And. I want you,” she murmurs against his lips, “I’ve wanted you for so long I can’t stand it.”

He makes a strangled noise into her mouth and stands suddenly, fingers digging into her ass where he’s holding her up, and then they’re abandoning their picnic with the stars because he’s carrying her back down into her apartment, all but barrelling through her front door and into the bedroom. 

Karen thinks, for a second, it’s gonna be all hard and fast and animal, clothes ripped off and pinned up against her bedroom wall, but Frank puts her down gently on the bed and litters her throat with kisses, peeling away her coat and his own. “How do you want me, Kay?” he murmurs, kissing her pulse point so softly it sends shivers down her spine.

“Slow.” she tells him, “Gentle. I wanna feel all of you, Frankie.” she rucks his shirt up with one hand, desperate to touch the firm expanse of his abdomen, the thick v-line of his hips. He tugs his shirt over his head in one fluid movement and deposits it on the floor, pulling away from her briefly to close the door and kick off his boots. Karen lets her eyes trail unabashedly over his skin, the silver faded scars and fresher, redder cuts littering his body, slides her hands over him and pulls him in as he settles back between her legs.

Frank kisses her hard, licking into her mouth with more fervour than before, and Karen can feel the swell of his cock pressed against her thigh even through the layers of fabric between them. She reaches down to palm him though his jeans and he makes a weak noise into her mouth that makes warmth flood between her legs. She arches upwards needily, grinding against him. Needing him more than she remembers ever needing anybody.

“Mmnh, Karen,” he sighs, pulling back long enough to peel her blouse over her head, nuzzling her breasts while he undoes her bra. Freeing them, he licks and toys with her nipples with his tongue and the pads of his thumbs until she’s squirming underneath him, both of them half clothed still but Karen’s never been so turned on in her _life_. “You like that?” he asks, and she nods desperately, digging her fingers into his back.

He shoots her that crooked little grin and kisses her softly, moving down her stomach and trailing wet kisses down her abdomen in his wake. It tingles against her skin, and Karen drags her fingers through his hair slowly, her whole body on fire. Frank pulls off her shoes and tugs her skirt down over her hips slowly, leaning forward to nip at her hip where the line of her underwear sits as he pulls her panties down, until finally Karen is naked and laid out in front of him, desperate for his touch. 

“I love you.” Frank tells her, trailing kisses down her thigh, nipping softly at the delicate skin there. He parts her carefully and pulls her leg over one shoulder, pressing his nose between her legs and tasting her so slowly and lightly she trembles with need for him. 

“Frank,” she twists her fingers in his hair and almost feels him grin against her. The rough pads of his fingers skim her abdomen and grasp her hips as he ups the pressure, tonguing her clit lightly and eating her out with such eagerness she can feel herself bucking against his touch, heat pooling in her stomach with every stroke of his tongue. He eats her out until she comes and then some, leisurely encouraging the little bursts of aftershock until she comes again in rapid succession, his name heavy on her lips.

“C’mere, Frankie,” she says, boneless and breathless. “Please.”

Frank crawls up the bed and kisses her, his thick, muscled shoulders supporting his weight as he leans over her. Karen reaches down for the zipper of his jeans and pushes them down his hips, taking his boxers with them so she can see his cock slide free of the cotton, thick and heavy. She gathers him in her hand and strokes him unhurriedly, flicking her thumb over the top of his cock to gather pre-come as she works her hand down to the base of him and back up again. Frank’s eyes close and he groans, guttural and deep and _needy_ , and he kisses her with a sudden desperation, his tongue sliding hot into her mouth.

“I wanna feel you,” he murmurs, taking her hand from him and pinning it above her head. Karen gazes up at him with that heat burning inside of her again, leaning up to press another, softer, kiss to his lips. Frank pulls back just long enough to look in her eyes. “Do you want this?” 

Of course Frank Castle asks for consent.

“I want you, Frankie,” she affirms, kissing him again. 

She can feel him push into her slowly, feel herself parting wide for him until he groans haltingly and it feels like there’s no part of her he isn’t touching. They’re pressed together stomach-to-stomach and chest-to-chest, heat blazing through her at every part of her he touches. And then he’s thrusting into her in long, sure strokes, pulling himself almost all the way out of her before surging inside her again and he finds such a sweet angle she sees the furrow in his brow as he cries out her name, letting go of the hand he’s trapped above her head to cup her ass and pull her into him. It’s like the world narrows down to only him, because all Karen can hear and see and smell are Frank, the sheen of sweat on his skin and his hands crushing her ass upwards to get that perfect spot, and she buries her face in the crook of his neck and honest to god _whimpers_ for him, her fingers cutting crescent moons into the flesh of his shoulders. 

He kisses the side of her head, moves one hand to cup the back of her head and tangle in her hair, moaning her name low and hot in her ear and it just might be the hottest thing Karen’s ever heard. He’s close, she can feel it in the slight stutter of his hips, but he keeps up an easy rhythm, and she can feel herself tightening around him, her third orgasm building in her gut, until she’s crying out for him again and trembling, coming around his slick, heavy cock. It’s that that pushes him over the edge, finally, and he groans throatily and buries his face in her hair as he pulses inside her, riding out the wave of his orgasm.

“Mmf,” she mumbles into his neck, holding tight onto him. She can’t tell if she’s ice cold or burning up, only that there’s gooseflesh all over her body and she wants this every day for the rest of her life.

He offers a panting laugh in return, kissing her hair, her ear, the side of her head, her temple. “Mmf, yeah,” he agrees, rolling onto his side and pulling her against his chest.

 

 

She finishes the article with a pot of freshly made coffee the next morning, typing the last few words at seven as Frank wanders out of her bedroom. He kisses the top of her head and settles on the couch next to her, idly toying with Max’s cropped ears as he watches her press send on the piece. The next day she’s front page; Ben sends her a proud text and Foggy drops round with congratulatory flowers, reacting oddly well to the whole…dating the Punisher, being In Love with the Punisher thing. She prints the photo she got of Steve and James outside the courthouse and mails it to Steve alongside a congratulations card with no return address, but still gets a thank you card through a couple days later from the both of them, and an invite for herself and Frank to join them for dinner. They do.

Karen doesn’t know how long this thing will last, whether it’ll run its course or if they’ll fall apart. She does know this: they’ve seeped into each others lives for so long it’s impossible to extract one from the other any more, and that maybe this was inevitable, and that it’s the happiest she’s ever been. She’ll hold onto Frank and this upside down, backwards life tight with both hands and never, ever let go.

**Author's Note:**

> Once again feedback is always always loved! And I'm on [tumblr](http://valiantbucky.tumblr.com) crying over this ship in my sin bin 100% of the time, feel free to join me.


End file.
